


From the Jaws of Defeat

by broniichan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxiety, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 20:52:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13959789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broniichan/pseuds/broniichan
Summary: Victor presses a finger to Yuuri’s forehead.“Eh?” Yuuri blinks, returning to the room.“You were frowning.”





	From the Jaws of Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> the following is brought to you in part by [this prompt](http://promptsgalore.tumblr.com/post/130203658241/write-something-that-includes-the-following-a)

The thunder crashes down.

Yuuri jumps out of his seat and speeds out of the auditorium, fast enough to get him out of there, but not fast enough to bring attention to himself. The sterile beige walls of the hallway tilt, laughter from down the hall warped and shrill, and they close in, hounding him as he wrenches open the fire exit and falls out into the sun. The door clunks shut after him.

He props himself up with hands on his knees, the concrete of the raised platform shapeshifting at his feet. Inhale, inhale, inhale, inhale, inhale, inhale, inhale. His chest burns.

A wall of cotton separates him from the rest of the world, his hearing clogged and slow.

Gradually, painfully, Yuuri can manage an exhale, and forces his lungs onto a steadier rhythm to dispel the spinning. He straightens up some, hand trembling and weak as he plucks off his glasses and rubs his eyes. When he places the glasses back on his nose, his vision is a little less splotchy.

Someone stands below, watching him.

Yuuri’s pulse careens again. He recognizes the person: it’s that one guy from his class, the one who always interrupts the lecturer with long winded anecdotes not particularly pertinent to the subject at hand. He’s neutrally fashionable, with muted, solid colors and a brown satchel bag slung over his shoulder instead of a backpack like most students and a short, swooping cut of silvery hair. His hands are on his hips, and an odd expression hangs on his face; not quite sympathetic, yet somewhat analytical.

After some deliberation, the guy hops up the handful of stairs. Yuuri jerks back, yet does not return inside. Stopping, the guy roots around the bottom of his satchel and offers out something to Yuuri. Perplexed, Yuuri takes it instinctively.

With a flash of a smile, the guy turns and slips back down the staircase, swerving around the building to presumably head for the main entrance. He vanishes from sight.

Yuuri stands frozen. His fingers pinch a bronze coin. Engraved in it is a 10 and something in a script he can’t read.

Snapping himself out, he checks his watch. Ten ‘til.

He pockets the coin and returns inside.

* * *

Dr. Timo Ziegler always folds his arms while lecturing.

It’s not like he has anything better to do; he doesn’t use a Powerpoint and he never writes anything on the chalkboard behind him, so with no prior engagements his arms are always tense over whatever sweater vest of the day it is―spinach green, today―allowing him to stand stationary and rant for as long as he likes about Poland.

Yuuri should have dropped after the first day of class, when instead of going through the syllabus for HIST 187: Central Europe 1800 - Present, Dr. Ziegler said, “If you have questions about how I run things, check the syllabus online,” and launched into the first lecture. Afterwards, Yuuri checked the syllabus, dread creeping over him to see, ‘no extra credit opportunities offered for this course,’ ‘random quizzes on readings,’ ‘in-class essays,’ and ‘two midterms worth 40% of grade.’ The next time he showed up for class, the class size had depreciated by about 15%, and after the first in-class essay (which Yuuri got a 78 on), the class dropped another 10%. However, the lure of the _exact_ general education credits Yuuri needs was too much to pass up, so he couldn’t make himself drop.

Also, he made the mistake of emailing Dr. Ziegler a question early into the semester (only to receive a curt, “Please read the syllabus more carefully,” in response) and can’t ditch the class now that Dr. Ziegler sort of knows who he is. What if he saw him around campus? What if he knew that Yuuri had dropped?

The readings are dense, with thousands of dates, people, and place names, and often in rough translations to English where Dr. Ziegler bemoans how much better they are in German, and despite Yuuri’s best effort to process and remember it all, the information resists entrapment.

Even his class notes are thoroughly unhelpful. Dr. Ziegler speaks fast and loads every sentence with valuable kernels of information, and with no visual aids and Dr. Ziegler’s faintly German accent, Yuuri scrambles to catch up, his writing hand aching by the end of the fifty minute lecture. Arrows point all over the margins of his notebook, large sections of text are crossed out, and there are phrases and fragments of sentences where can only Yuuri stare at his own handwriting afterward, utterly lost over what past him meant.

Today, Yuuri chews on his pen, while Dr. Ziegler’s voice drones on somewhere in the distance. In the classes after the midterm, a good half of the class apparently elected to skip, so today is quiet.

“Oh, before I forget,” says Dr. Ziegler, uncrossing his arms only to readjust his thick framed glasses. “I have received a lot of emails about when your midterms will be graded. It has only been a week, and I have over eighty handwritten exams to get through. Please do not ask me again, and learn a little patience. Anyway…”

Back to the rant―Yuuri tries to smother the rumbling of buffaloes in his chest.

Movement catches his eye, pulling him back into his seat. It’s that guy who gave him the coin, late and casually sauntering down the middle aisle, with Dr. Ziegler impervious to the disruption. Offering a few apologies, the guy scoots into his regular spot near the front, several rows ahead of Yuuri.

Yuuri stares at the back of his head. His silvery hair glints in the sunlight drifting from the arched windows, getting a little ruffled as the guy pulls his scarf off. The little coin, sitting in the pocket of Yuuri’s backpack at his feet, almost glows through the pocket.

“―so now, for Poland―” Dr. Ziegler stops, frowning into the front rows. He sighs. “Yes?”

The guy drops his raised hand and asks, “When will the midterms be graded?”

Dr. Ziegler’s expression tightens. Somehow, he swallows down whatever devastating comment rises up at the back of his throat and merely says, “When they are graded.”

The guy shoots Dr. Ziegler a thumbs up.

When class ends, the shuffles of papers and feet in his ears, Yuuri blinks at his notebook. He only wrote two sentences.

He stands and ducks out before the guy can turn around and see him.

* * *

Phichit talks about something, laptop sat open in front of him. Yuuri drifts off, his eyes unfocused on the lounge table. They ache from his late night catching up on the readings for Dr. Ziegler’s class to make up for what he didn’t write down during lecture. The coin flips around in his fingers.

“Yuuri,” Phichit complains.

Yuuri stops and sends a sheepish look to Phichit. “Sorry.”

Sitting up in his seat, Phichit nudges the back of Yuuri’s hand. “What is that?”

“Oh, uh,” stammers Yuuri, glancing down at the little bronze coin. He holds it out to Phichit. “It’s some coin. I don’t know, I can’t read it.”

Lightly, Phichit hums and plucks the coin from Yuuri’s hand. He inspects it, flipping it over on both sides, before handing it back to Yuuri and typing something into his computer. It takes Phichit all of ten seconds to look it up before he announces, “It’s a ruble.”

“A ruble?”

“Yeah.” Phichit turns the laptop toward Yuuri, where images of similar and identical coins are pulled up. Going back a page, he opens up the Wikipedia article titled, ‘Russian ruble.’ “Seems like it’s used in Russia.”

“Oh.”

Phichit closes the search tab and goes back to the study guide he should be doing. “It’s cool, where’d you find it?”

“Oh, ah, I just found it on the ground somewhere,” Yuuri lies.

Not entirely convinced by Yuuri’s tone, Phichit just smiles, nods his head, and stretches his arms overhead. After a moment, he says, “Oh, how was the exam with the grumpy old man?”

“He’s not a grumpy old man.”

“Everything you’ve said about him qualifies him as a grumpy old man.”

“It was fine.”

“Oh, good! I know you were worried about it.” Phichit rests his elbows on the table and heaves an all-suffering sigh. “Now it’s my turn to get through this.” He groans, dipping his head into the keyboard. “I should have started studying sooner!”

“I know you’ll be fine,” Yuuri says with a smile. “You still have two days!”

Phichit pulls himself up, his momentary crisis over, and places his hands on the keys. “Yeah, you’re right.”

As Phichit begins typing, Yuuri stares at his fingers, deft and purposeful. His smile drips away, and his own fingers curl around the ruble.

* * *

“I have a few words to say before I begin the lecture,” says Dr. Ziegler, slapping a thick manila folder onto the podium. He takes a few breaths to build up the suspense. “It has become painfully apparent to me, upon reading through your exams, that many of you have _not_ been keeping up with the readings.”

Yuuri’s stomach churns, and guiltily, he shifts in his seat.

“Some of you did well, but most of you…” Dr. Ziegler purses his lips. “The class average was a sixty-eight. Now since this particular exam was so dismal, I have decided against my better judgment to be lenient and offer a curve. As you will see, the curve is quite generous, as the highest score was still far from perfect. Keep in mind that if your next midterm is as disappointing as this one, I will not give a curve a second time, so please, I urge you, _do the readings._ Study. If you have questions, email me or come see me in office hours. I know the exam was tough, but it was not that tough. I will hand them back at the end of class. Anyway. To 1890!”

Heartbeat pounding against his ribcage, Yuuri listens without hearing and writes without comprehending, eyes constantly darting up to the wall clock over Dr. Ziegler’s head, which ticks ahead toward the end of class without any care. As it reaches five minutes until the end of class, a collective sense of dread looms over the entire room.

“Alright, that is all for today,” wraps up Dr. Ziegler, picking up the folder. “Now we’re going to do this in an orderly fashion. I will call out names in reverse alphabetical order, so when you hear your name, please come collect your exam.”

Hands trembling, Yuuri shuts his notebook and shoves it and his pen into his backpack.

“Jin Zhang… Allison Zadworny… Brandon White… Maria Walters…”

Yuuri’s eyes don’t seek the expressions of those receiving their exams; his attention points to the folder in Dr. Ziegler’s hands, the stack of white packets within which he knows one bears his name.

“Ben Peralta… Leah Park… Kate O’Brien… Victor Nikiforov…”

The guy, again sat close to the front, pops out of his seat, throws his scarf over his shoulder, and weaves his way out of the row to march up to the front. He waves and smiles at Dr. Ziegler, who shoves the exam onto him as quickly as possible.

Without more than a glimpse at whatever is written at the top, the guy―Victor?―crams it into his satchel and bounces up the aisle steps, making way for those walking down. For one instant, his eyes meet Yuuri’s, and his momentum slows a tad. Yuuri looks away. Skin itching, he avoids his periphery, where the guy―Victor―passes and vanishes.

“Hannah Lewis… Yuuri Katsuki…”

Yuuri rushes up. He trips and stutters past the other people sitting in the same row, streaming apologies, and makes it out to the aisle and down the steps. Dr. Ziegler awaits him, packet held with the back facing upward, expression revealing nothing of Yuuri’s performance.

Yuuri takes his exam and flips it over.

85.

85 is his raw score; with the curve, he gets an extra ten points, boosting him to a 95.

He doesn’t see the 95. He doesn’t see the ‘Good,’ scrawled in the corner. He sees the 85 in blue ink, and he sees the 90 of whoever made the highest score and set the curve.

Someone bumps into him. “Excuse me.”

“Oh, sorry!” Yuuri scrambles out of the way.

When he gets back to his belongings, he slips the exam, blank back page facing out, behind his notebook.

* * *

Pulsating beats thud over the rumble of machines from inside the laundry room, and with one hand on the door handle and the other holding up his laundry, Yuuri pauses, unsure what he’ll find.

He cracks open the door. A woman’s singing voice, backed by disco cymbals and bass: “ _Sitting here eating my heart out waiting, waiting for some lover to call_.”

One of the other foreign students, Yuuri unable to recall his name, sits atop a washer. His curly sandy hair is artfully undercut, complementing his well-groomed dark scruff. A loose red tank top with a plunging neckline sets his pectorals and chest hair on display, while tiny white athletic shorts show off his muscular legs and hint at the prized goods.

Yuuri ducks aside, selecting a machine and turning his back to him.

“ _Dialed about a thousand numbers lately,_ ” continues the song as Yuuri stuffs the washer, “ _almost rang the phone off the wall._ ”

Two voices, not one, join in on the chorus, loud and imperfect. “ _Looking for some hot stuff, baby, this evening!_ ”

Yuuri hazards a look back. Opposite the one student is the guy―Victor―both in the midst of passionate and bad duet. Quickly, before the g―Victor―can spot his attention, Yuuri focuses on his clothes, their voices fumbling over the lyrics behind him.

“ _Gotta have some hot_ ―”

“ _Hot stuff!_ ”

Chorus over, the song turns to a brief synth instrumental interlude as Yuuri shuts the washer and straightens up. He has to go to the control box to pay for the washer’s time. Which is across the room. Through where Victor and the other guy are now dancing.

Yuuri trains his eyes to the floor and stiffly marches forward, muttering an, “Excuse me.”

“Sorry, darling,” says the one guy, moving out of the way and leaning back into the washer.

Victor silently lets Yuuri pass by, Yuuri’s back burning with phantom attention as he reaches the control box, punches in the number of his washer, and swipes his student card.

“ _Want to share my love with a warm blooded lover, want to bring a wild man back home._ ”

When the machine beeps in confirmation, Yuuri heads back to his washer, again placing all attention to the grainy tile floor at his feet.

The other guy sings along as the chorus starts up again, but Victor doesn’t this time. Yuuri presses the button _BRIGHT COLORS_. The washer grumbles to life, vibrating and only somewhat burying the insistent beat of disco.

Yuuri goes to leave.

“Hey, you’re in Ziegler’s class, right?”

The warm, humid air from the laundry seeps into Yuuri’s skin, and he stops short. Victor leans with one shoulder into the wall, arms folded over a simple gray t-shirt, while the other guy continues to lounge over the washer, picking at his nails.

“A-Ah, yeah,” Yuuri says, hands fiddling with his keys and student card.

“I love him. Isn’t he funny?”

“Uh… yeah? I guess?”

“I go to his office hours a lot just to chat.” Victor pouts. “But he always tells me to come only for questions. _But_ he’s never actually kicked me out, so!”

The mere image of being alone in an office with Dr. Ziegler sets Yuuri’s pulse thundering. He shifts his weight. “Ah…”

“ _How about some hot stuff, baby, this evening? I need some hot stuff, baby, tonight._ ”

“How about that exam, hm? I knew it was going to be tough but _wow,_ Ziegler really doesn’t hold back. Then again, I didn’t really study that much…”

Yuuri scratches the back of his head. “Oh, ah, yeah. I mean, it was okay, but yeah, it was tough―”

“Hm, I bet you got a good grade, though,” says Victor, narrowing his eyes. “You look smart.”

Staring back, Yuuri has nothing to say to that.

Luckily, the other guy responds for him, drawling, “Meanwhile you look like a bimbo.”

“ _Chris,_ ” whines Victor, making it into two syllables.

Yuuri inches back a step, wondering if this is his moment for a fleet exit, but Victor loses interest in Chris and faces Yuuri again.

“Well, ah… See you around!” he chirps, bearing white teeth.

With a mumbled, “Bye,” Yuuri darts away, shutting the door on the disco and muffling the lyrics.

When he reluctantly returns to switch his clothes over to a dryer, the two are gone. The only other person in the laundry room is a guy with fine blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail, face wearing a scowl, tinny electric guitar warbling from his earbuds, flinging his clothes (black, mostly) into a washer.

Yuuri’s hands are cold as he yanks out his soggy clothes.

* * *

3, 4, 8, 11.

They’re imprinted in his mind, his vision. He looks at his watch: 3, 4, 8, 11. He glances around the quad as he walks to Yardley Hall: 3, 4, 8, 11. Even in the brief moments of black when he blinks: 3, 4, 8, 11.

A cold wall of wind presses into Yuuri, hampering his speed and whipping his hair. Inside his pockets, his hands clench.

3 was a dumb mistake; he knew the right answer, he just misread the question. 8 and 11 were just mistakes made in lack of study; he looked up the information later to confirm how he didn’t know what they were. But 4 he’s read over and over, tugging at his hair, unable to understand what was wrong with his answer.

Tall white columns mark the entrance patio of Yardley Hall, in front of the pinkish terracotta walls and arched oak doors; imperious, stately, and precisely how Yuuri imagined the history department to look.

3, 4, 8, 11.

Yuuri enters with an exhale of relief to be back in warmth. Residual wind rattles the door and the leaves of a potted plant near the entrance. Yuuri finds the sign for the stairs and slips down a flight to the basement. Sunlight gone, the hallway relies on buzzing fluorescent lights over the distant rustles of paper and voices.

Filing away 3, 4, 8, and 11, Yuuri retrieves the number 23 instead, eyes scanning each door he passes. Some are open, some are shut. Voices reach him before he sees the 23 on a cracked door, with _T. Ziegler_ on a small plaque below.

Yuuri’s feet slow. Swallowing down the tension at the back of his throat, he peeks in from a distance so as not to disturb. Dr. Ziegler sits in a chair next to a desk, arms folded like always, across from someone with silvery hair. When Dr. Ziegler’s eyes sense movement, a set of blue eyes follow in suit and land on Yuuri.

“Oh, hi again!” Victor calls, waving an arm.

Yuuri inches back. “Oh, um, sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb―”

“No, come in,” Dr. Ziegler interjects, rolling his chair forward. “Provided you have a question, unlike some people.”

“Ah, yeah…” Yuuri pushes the door open wider. “Um…”

Dr. Ziegler plucks off his glasses and cleans them on his red sweater vest. “Leave, Mr. Nikiforov. If you come up with an _actual_ question, you may come back afterwards.”

Victor is all smiles. “Later!” He breezes by with the barest flicker of a look back and closes the door behind him.

Dr. Ziegler sighs and replaces his glasses. “Now…” He gestures a hand to the wooden chair opposite his rolling chair. “Have a seat, Mr…”

“Katsuki! Um, Yuuri Katsuki.” Quickly, Yuuri plops down, hands clenched over his knees.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” says Dr. Ziegler, almost to himself.

Yuuri’s insides twist; he _does_ remember him from that email he sent back at the beginning of the semester…

“So? What was it you wanted to ask about?”

“Oh! Ah, yes!” Yuuri lets his backpack slide from his shoulders, and he fumbles with the zipper. “Um, about the exam…”

He clutches the exam―85 still scrawled up at the top―and points to number 4. “I went back through my notes and the readings, but I still don’t quite get why I got this wrong…”

“Let me see.” Pushing up his glasses, Dr. Ziegler reads over the question and Yuuri’s hastily written answer. “Ah, yes.” He sits back, chair squeaking a little, and places a probing look on Yuuri. “Hm.” His eyes narrow a fraction. “English isn’t your first language, correct?”

Yuuri flushes. “A-Ah, no, it’s not.”

“No worries. I know firsthand how garbage English is as a language.” Dr. Ziegler leans forward and aims the paper to Yuuri. “See, what you said here…”

Bit by bit, Dr. Ziegler picks apart the components of Yuuri’s response, revealing the subtle mistakes that resulted in Yuuri contradicting himself. When he finishes, the wealth of information drips from Yuuri’s ears, too much to all fit inside his skull.

“Oh, I see, thank you so much!” Yuuri can’t help the dip of his head.

“You’re welcome. If you have any more questions in the future, stop by again. Keep up the good work.”

With a final nod, Yuuri stuffs the exam back into his backpack and hops up. He leaves the office, door cracked behind him, and exhales deeply under the humming fluorescents.

“Your backpack isn’t zipped.”

Yuuri whips around to find Victor peeling himself from the wall. Blindly, Yuuri pats a hand behind him to find the zipper. “Oh―”

“Here.” Victor’s hand nudges Yuuri’s out of the way and tugs the zipper shut.

The ruble still sits in the small front pocket, fighting its way into Yuuri’s consciousness. “Thanks,” he murmurs. His head tilts. “Uh, did you have a question for Dr. Ziegler?”

“Nope! I was waiting for you.”

Frowning, Yuuri flicks his eyes aside. “A-Ah…”

“Where are you headed? I can walk you there.”

“Oh, you don’t have to!” Yuuri waves his hands in a flurry. “I wouldn’t want to―”

“No, no, no, it’s no problem! I don’t have any other classes today.”

Yuuri finds himself being taken by the arm and led back to the main floor, his feet mindlessly following along. The touch doesn’t let up even when they’re out of the front door, wind buffeting them and stalling their pace a little, and Victor’s fingers curl around Yuuri’s bicep to ground himself against the wind. Once it dies down, he lets go and they take to the brick pathway, side by side.

Yuuri says nothing about how he doesn’t have any other classes today either.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, Victor gives Yuuri a sideways glance. “So where are you off to, um…”

“Oh. Yuuri.”

“Yuuri.”

“Ford,” decides Yuuri, instead of the dorm he knows they both share.

“To Ford, then!”

They walk, amongst chilly air and other students milling about, talking about nothing substantial. Yuuri keeps anticipating Victor to state a reason for his random generosity, but the words flung light and casual from his mouth are detached from any motive.

Ford, the biology building, comes into view without anything of their talk resolving Yuuri’s questions.

“Bye, Yuuri!” Victor calls as Yuuri steps up the front stairs, his arm waving back and forth like a windshield wiper.

Yuuri merely raises his hand.

When he enters through the big glass doors, he checks back, but Victor is gone.

3, 4, 8, 11 are not in the stairwells and lounges of Ford; instead, _English isn’t your first language, correct?_ bleeds dark onto white walls and gleams from the spines of books.

* * *

Victor begins waving to Yuuri whenever he sees him in Dr. Ziegler’s class (when he shows up, which, Yuuri has noticed from being more attentive to his presence, is not a given fact), and gradually, he moves up a couple of rows and takes the empty seat beside Yuuri. Although confused, Yuuri allows Victor’s chatty, friendly presence, comfortable enough to listen and offer responses when needed.

Victor doesn’t take notes. While Yuuri scribbles furiously to keep up with Dr. Ziegler, he sits back and simply listens, sometimes nursing a hot cup of coffee or badgering Dr. Ziegler with random thoughts during the lecture. Periodically, he chuckles at things Dr. Ziegler says, even though Dr. Ziegler is always entirely serious and no one else in the class ever cracks a smile.

On a Monday, Victor tells Yuuri about some party he went to over the weekend, searching through his satchel for something. He slaps several somewhat crinkled papers onto the desk, still peering into his bag.

Sat atop the pile, the front page bent, is a packet with _HIST 187: Midterm 1_ printed at the top. In Dr. Ziegler’s handwriting and that same blue ink reads 90. 100, with the curve.

Yuuri stares.

“…isn’t that wild?”

Victor wants a response from him; Yuuri inhales sharply, blinks, and meets Victor’s eyes. “Ah, yeah.”

A pause, where Victor looks like he might veer from his train of conversation, but he keeps forward with, “Right?! And then…”

The 90 gets buried beneath another stack of papers.

* * *

Laughter and music echo from down the hallway.

Flopped over his desk, Yuuri groans and picks himself up off of his scattered papers, taking off his glasses and pressing a hand to his closed eyes to assuage the ache. Now that he thinks about it, Phichit hasn’t come back to the room, and when he replaces his glasses and looks up at his hung calendar, he fully comprehends that it’s a Friday night. Of course Phichit is elsewhere.

Yuuri pushes out his chair with a screech of linoleum and stands, stretching his arms and cracking his spine. His writing hand is numb and limp. With an inhale, he snatches up his nearly empty water bottle from his desk and heads into the hall, leaving his room door cracked.

The voices and music grow in volume, coming from a room near where the water fountain and hall mirror are. Yuuri wishes there were another fountain to go to, but he’s not so desperate to go to a different floor, so reluctantly, he pads over to the water fountain, holding his breath.

His hip leans into the button. Water splashes into an arc and dribbles down the drain. The water bottle grows heavier in his hand.

The song changes from bouncy to slow, a ballad with piano and strings. “ _Last dance. Last chance, for love._ ”

“You all are fucking gross,” says a voice Yuuri doesn’t recognize.

Hesitantly, Yuuri looks up. The room in question is opposite to the mirror, so he can catch a portion of its image in the mirror without announcing his presence. It’s dark but for several strings of lights definitely in violation of fire regulations, with a handful of people crammed within.

Yuuri can make out the form of that one guy Chris, dressed in a sheer black shirt, grinding slowly on some other guy Yuuri doesn’t recognize. He quickly looks elsewhere, landing on that blond guy he saw in the laundry room, who presumably said the prior comment owing to his tense posturing and glower.

“ _I need you, by me, beside me, to guide me._ _To hold me, to scold me, ‘cause when I’m bad, I’m so, so bad._ ”

Yuuri turns away as the ballad-like quality of the song ramps up into full-on, fast paced disco with the chorus, “ _So let’s dance, the last dance, let’s dance, the last dance, let’s dance, this last dance tonight._ ”

“Yuuri!”

Innards seizing, Yuuri wheels around. Victor pokes his head out of the room, dressed in a dark blue button down. Hand clutched around a red cup, he sways a little as he steps out. Pink colors his cheeks, and his shirt is unbuttoned near the top, curtaining a tease of his collarbones.

“Thought I saw you!” Victor’s mouth is a little sloppy around his words, slipping in and out of a thicker accent. His hand flies forward and strokes down the length of Yuuri’s free arm to clasp Yuuri’s hand. “You should come! Get a drink!”

Clenching his jaw, Yuuri yanks his hand out of Victor’s grasp and plucks the drink out of Victor’s hand.

Victor’s eyes widen. “Wha―”

Yuuri foists his own water bottle off onto Victor, brings Victor’s cup to his lips and downs what’s left of it before Victor can retaliate. He grimaces slightly at the strength of whatever was in there, but nevertheless crumples the plastic cup when it’s empty and gives it back to Victor, who stares, mouth agape.

Taking his water bottle back from Victor, Yuuri says with a bit of a bite, “Some people are doing homework.”

He turns on his heel and leaves.

Once he’s successfully completed his escape and shut his door, Yuuri exhales deeply. The continued murmur of voices and disco beats still infect the room.

He clambers onto his bed and buries his face in his pillows, headache gradually blooming from the sudden intake of alcohol.

* * *

At the end of one of Dr. Ziegler’s lectures, Victor invites Yuuri to study with him for the upcoming in-class essay. They exchange numbers, and with a lot of emojis, Victor decides the place and time, so Yuuri shows up to find Victor already settled at a table in the library, laptop open and papers everywhere.

Victor doesn’t look up until Yuuri sits down opposite, almost practiced in the pause before he blinks and smiles. “Hi!”

Humming a greeting, Yuuri focuses on the stripes of the wood comprising the table and immediately pulls out his notes and laptop. Head bent over his papers, Yuuri reads but does not comprehend.

After maybe ten minutes, Victor sighs and shifts, rustling his own papers. “Yuuri,” he whispers.

Yuuri immediately looks up. “What?”

“What did we talk about on Monday the sixth? I wasn’t there.”

“Monday the sixth? I don’t remember off the top of my head… You can look over my notes, if you want,” Yuuri says, flicking through the pages of his notebook to find the correct day.

Momentary muted disappointment pulls at Victor’s features, but he instantly smiles and chirps, “Thanks!” He reaches over the table and takes the offering of Yuuri’s notebook.

Only about a minute passes before Victor speaks again. “Yuuri, what does this say?” he asks, pointing to something on the page.

“Can you not read my handwriting?”

“I mean, _most_ of it is legible…”

Yuuri stands and comes to the other side of the table to squint over Victor’s shoulder. “Where?”

Victor points again.

Yuuri squints harder. “I think it’s… bourgeoisie?”

Gaze switching between Yuuri’s face and the notebook, Victor bobs his head. “Oh, I see it now… I think there’s a couple of letters you missed.” He picks up his own pen, and with a click, adds in a u and an e where Yuuri had written ‘borgoisie.’

Without moving or tearing his eyes away, Yuuri says nothing.

Victor looks back at him from over his shoulder, searching Yuuri’s face with an unreadable expression.

Inhaling, Yuuri finds his body and jolts back. He returns to the other side of the table.

When Yuuri settles down, Victor does not bother him again the whole rest of the time he looks through Yuuri’s notes.

“Thanks, Yuuri!” he says, handing them back over.

Yuuri closes the notebook and drops it into his backpack.

* * *

Dr. Ziegler gives back the in-class essays a week and a half after they wrote them. On the page of the little blue booklet with Yuuri’s name is an 83 in black ink.

“Ooh, that was _rough,_ ” Victor says beside him, chuckling as he shows Yuuri his 85. “How’d yours go?”

Yuuri shuts the booklet before Victor can look over his shoulder. “Ah, okay, I guess.”

“Hmm. Ah, well, I probably should have studied harder.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri thoughtlessly agrees, mind running over his night studying until 3 a.m. before the in-class essay.

“It’s Friday, though! Want to get a drink later?”

Yuuri packs up his things. “I’m busy.”

“Oh…” Victor stills, his long fingers pinching his blue booklet.

“See you.”

“Oh, bye!”

Yuuri arrives at his next class too early, so he goes to the quiet bathroom and washes his hands over and over. His cheeks are flushed from the walk over, he thinks.

A buzz from his phone.

**Have a good weekend!!!!!!!!! :))**

Sliding the phone back into his backpack pocket, Yuuri hears the clink of the ruble.

* * *

Winter only slightly releases its clutches; they get the sporadic warm days among the cold ones, but a few bushes and trees go ahead and flower, filling Yuuri with a melancholy, for he knows it’s premature and they’re bound to be killed by sudden frost as the weather changes its mind yet again.

* * *

Yuuri’s footsteps echo as he trudges up the four flights to his dorm room, alone filling the stairwell.

A door cracks up above from the fifth or sixth floor and feet patter down toward him.

“Oh! Yuuri!”

Yuuri stops, hand on the railing, and cranes his head up. Victor leans over the rail from a flight and a half above. He disappears from sight and his feet continue downward until he reaches the steps in front of Yuuri, beaming.

“How have you been?”

“Oh, fine,” Yuuri regurgitates. “Um, you?”

“Good!” Victor sticks a hand into the pocket of a crisp brown jacket. With a laugh, he adds, “I know I missed class a few days, but how is dear Ziegler doing?”

“Oh, the same as usual, I guess? Nothing really specific to add.”

Victor nods. “Aw, I missed him.”

The stairwell is quiet, tenuous in its expansiveness and emptiness.

Cocking his head, Victor slips down one more step to stand on the same level as Yuuri. He goes as if to pass him, but stops at Yuuri’s side, reaching out a hand to tap the back of his knuckles to Yuuri’s cheek. He murmurs, “I missed you, too.”

In a blink, Victor is gone, heading down the rest of the stairs.

Yuuri presses shaking hands to his hot cheeks.

* * *

When Victor returns to Dr. Ziegler’s class, everything is the same. Dr. Ziegler prattles on, arms folded over his brown sweater vest (though he wears a short sleeved button down underneath accounting for the slight rise in temperature outside), the auditorium is alive with the scratching of pens, and Victor sits beside Yuuri, blowing into a cup of piping coffee with the lid in his hand instead of taking notes.

Before the lecture, Victor asks if Yuuri would allow him to borrow his notes again, and afterwards, while the rest of the class files out of the auditorium, Yuuri holds the page open so Victor can snap pictures for later.

When done and the auditorium is half empty, Victor slips his phone back into his satchel and winks. “I’ll text you if I have trouble reading again.”

Yuuri lets out a short laugh, slides his backpack over his shoulder, and immediately exits without anything more. In the din of footsteps and talk, Yuuri thinks he hears Victor call goodbye.

The air of the little alcove of the library Yuuri hides himself in is stagnant.

* * *

It snows during spring break. Yuuri passes up an invitation to go to the beach with Phichit and stays to himself in the room, sleeping late and listening to music.

When he steps outside once the snow melts, the flowers are withered as predicted.

* * *

Yuuri treads down the stairs, head twisted around the lug of laundry in his arms so as not to miss a step or bump into anyone. It’s early on a Saturday. The world around him is somewhat foggy, as he chose to leave his glasses behind, not feeling the need to see too clearly, yet. Back in the room, Phichit is snoring in explosive bursts.

He slows when he arrives at the laundry room and drops his bag on the floor so he can haul the door open. To his surprise, the laundry room is not empty.

Victor, bent over a dryer with his hands on dried clothing, looks up. His hair is a little disheveled, strands of silver flying off instead of lying smooth and pristine like usual, and his eyes are a little droopy, like he hasn’t fully woken up yet.

“Uh, Yuuri!” Victor resumes dumping his clothes into a basket. He smiles. “Good morning!”

“Morning,” Yuuri says back, moving forward to pick out a washer. He busies himself in shoving his clothes in the washer, Victor equally captivated with his own clothes in his periphery, and when he goes to the box and pays for his time, Victor is still pulling things out.

Instead of just one basket for his clothes, Victor has another he’s placing dark gray sheets and a comforter into. He shuts the dryers once he’s emptied them and stares down at the baskets with his hands on his hips as if calculating what to do.

“I could help you carry those.”

Victor glances over his shoulder. They lock eyes; Yuuri holds firm in his impulsiveness.

The washer rumbles, setting the floor beneath them to vibrate.

A quicksilver smile. “Okay.”

Silently, they pick up Victor’s baskets (Yuuri taking the one with the sheets, Victor the one with the clothes), and leave. Victor, unlike Yuuri, chooses to ride the elevator instead of precariously climb back up all those stairs, so they stand in the metallic box, walls reflecting fuzzy versions of their images back, and listen to the buzz of the fluorescent overhead.

Consecutive beeps as they draw near the sixth floor.

The sixth floor looks almost exactly like the fourth, but it is just off enough to instill a deep rooted sense of unease in Yuuri. Victor leads him to an ajar door on the right and enters without a checking behind.

Yuuri pauses. “Um.”

Victor seems to have no qualms about him entering, so Yuuri follows in, nudging the door halfway shut behind. Victor’s side is easily distinguishable from his roommate’s; the left half of the room is clean, minimal, primarily in muted neutrals or pastels, while the right half of the room is violently messy and most in black except for the occasional intensely saturated shade. The right hand bed, unmade, hosts no body, while the left hand bed is stripped to the mattress without sheets or a comforter.

“My roommate has some conference with an organization or something,” Victor explains, dropping his clothes beside his groomed desk. “He would be _very_ displeased if I woke him up this early otherwise.”

Lowering the other basket, Yuuri says nothing in response. He leans forward and sifts out the sheet to drag it to the bare bed.

“Ah,” says Victor in surprise as Yuuri begins fitting the sheet to the mattress, but he quickly comes to and joins in, pulling the sheet taut opposite Yuuri. Once the sheet is on, they spread out the comforter and replace Victor’s handful of pillows back where they belong.

A hush falls over them as the work slows, and Yuuri’s hand presses to the warm, fresh comforter. Early morning light filters in through the slats of the windowshade, a soft, hazy blue spilling into the room and coloring all it makes contact with.

Before he can think to do anything else, Yuuri pries himself away, passes Victor, and approaches the door.

“Oh,” says Victor from behind. “See you, then.”

Yuuri halts. His hand pushes the door closed, shutting out the hallway lights. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When he turns back, Victor looks at him with lips parted. “Oh?”

Yuuri’s insides tumble like his now forgotten laundry and his face heats up―but for once, he discards it all and steps across the room, stopping to look up at Victor from an arm’s length away. In a voice too soft for him to recognize as his own, he murmurs, “Unless you want me to leave?”

Victor barely appears to breathe or blink for several thuds of Yuuri’s pulse. The corner of his mouth twitches. “No.”

Stillness.

Cautiously, Yuuri reaches up a hand and smoothes down one side of Victor’s hair. Victor inhales and pulls himself tighter, Yuuri’s fingertips lightly pressing to the hair behind his ear.

Victor clasps his wrist. He guides Yuuri’s hand to cup his face and presses his own hand over Yuuri’s with a squeeze, shutting his eyes and leaning his head into Yuuri’s touch. Faint unshaved or messily shaved scruff along Victor’s jaw prickles Yuuri’s hand.

Several breaths.

Victor lifts his head, and his gaze combs over Yuuri’s face as his fingers curl tight around Yuuri’s hand.

Outside, a lone car rumbles past.

It feels prophesied when Victor leans in and Yuuri lifts his chin to meet him. Yuuri braces himself with hands to Victor’s sides, while Victor holds both sides of his face, firm even when Victor pulls back for a breath as if to gain confirmation, his cheeks dusted pink.

Yuuri, a little forcefully, kisses him back.

Time both extends and skips―Victor’s fingers curl in Yuuri’s hair―Yuuri pushes Victor halfway onto the bed, Victor letting out a small laugh and a breathy, “ _Y_ _uuri_ ―” Victor pins Yuuri, his knee pressing between Yuuri’s legs.

Hasty and clumsy, they undress each other and themselves, spoiling the tidiness of the bed and the room, and completely bare, Victor hovers over Yuuri, the rush subsiding a moment as he strokes Yuuri’s thigh and presses a languid kiss to Yuuri’s collarbone.

He digs his hips into Yuuri’s, drawing out a hitched exhale. Mouth drifting over Yuuri’s neck, his breath hot enough to fog up a mirror, Victor says in a low voice, “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

Warmth lingers in the freshly washed sheets below Yuuri, but Victor is warmer.

Once the rush cools to a comfortable warmth, they both lie together under the covers, somewhat cramped with the twin bed, Victor’s arm encircled around Yuuri and Yuuri’s head resting on Victor’s shoulder.

Lazily, Victor’s fingers skim up and down Yuuri’s arm.

Yuuri skirts Victor’s eyes, his attention transfixed on the wall; the light outside changes with the rising sun, glowing beams shooting stripes through the blinds.

Victor presses a finger to Yuuri’s forehead.

“Eh?” Yuuri blinks, returning to the room.

“You were frowning.” Exhaling and pulling back his arm, Victor props up his head to survey Yuuri. “What are you thinking about?”

With a shake of his head, Yuuri says, “Nothing.”

“Hmm.”

Yuuri readjusts his head on the pillow, eyes flitting away.

Gradually, as the sun increases in temperature and draws different shapes on the walls, Victor drifts off with slow, even breaths, his arm loosely draped around Yuuri. Residual ghosts of color hang in Yuuri’s vision when he looks away from the stripes of of sunlight and he gingerly slides himself out from Victor’s arm to step to the floor. Holding his breath, he picks up his clothes, puts them back on, retrieves his keys and student card, and leaves the room.

A couple of people clutter the laundry room now, and other machines whirr away while Yuuri’s has been long silent.

His clothes are wrinkled and a little rank, but he throws them into the dryer anyway.

* * *

They’re in the library, sat across each other at a table, Yuuri going through notes for a different midterm and Victor reading some book about economic relations. Subtle glances punctuate the shuffling of papers and the occasional sniff.

Eyes growing tired, Yuuri slouches back into his chair and runs a hand through his hair. Victor’s eyes travel along a path in the brown hardcover he holds open with one hand. Yuuri wills Victor’s attention to him, but Victor remains fixed on his book.

Victor flips a page.

Yuuri leans over the side of his chair, and with a _skripppp_ of the zipper of his backpack, he sits back up.

“Why did you give me this?” he asks, slapping the ruble flat to the table and pushing it toward Victor.

Blinking and frowning, Victor does not answer immediately. He looks up to Yuuri’s face, down at the ruble, back to Yuuri, continuing to to hold his book upright. A raise of one shoulder. “I don’t know.”

He purses his lips. “I guess… It seemed like you needed something.”

The ruble indents into Yuuri’s fingers.

Swallowing, he pulls it back to himself. When he replaces it in his backpack and returns to fussing over his notes, Victor is already deeply entrenched within his book again.

The girl at the table next to them lets out a rattly cough.

* * *

“Yuuri, _Yuuri,_ what are you still doing like that? Get dressed!”

Yuuri lifts his head, confused for a moment as to why Phichit would oppose his hoodie and sweatpants. “Oh!” He chews on his lip. “I, uh… Forgot.”

“ _Yuuri,_ ” gripes Phichit, buttoning his nice suit jacket, which, upon second thought, makes a lot more sense to Yuuri now. “Well don’t just sit there! We’ve still got…” He consults his phone. “Twenty minutes.”

Sitting back in his desk chair and looking away from Phichit, Yuuri drills his attention to needlessly shifting his notes. “You go on without me.”

A pause, then: “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I have a lot to do.”

“…Okay. Good luck, then!”

A little corner of Yuuri knows he should say something else, something more, but he remains quiet, and Phichit leaves without needling into him. He’s comforted, at least, by knowing that Phichit will undoubtedly have fun without him anyway. It’s not like his presence is a requirement for that.

He wonders if Victor mentioned he was going, but thinking back, he can’t remember.

Not wanting reminders from Snapchat and Instagram, he turns off his phone and continues reading.

But he gets a reminder anyway as Phichit tells him all about it the next day.

* * *

Victor isn’t in class on Wednesday, so Yuuri doesn’t see him until Friday, where Yuuri offhandedly mentions he doesn’t have any more classes after Dr. Ziegler’s, and Victor doesn’t either, so when class ends with a brusque comment from Dr. Ziegler about improving on Monday’s upcoming midterm, Yuuri acquires a new shadow.

Victor chatters about nothing as they amble, hints of spring in the slight breeze and the flowering buds of trees. The crowds of people eventually thin out as the next set of classes start, and the two of them are essentially alone as they approach a small fountain in a courtyard, not yet in operation, but now at least filled with water.

Leaves speckle the shallow basin of the fountain, while escaped petals float atop the water.

Sitting down on the fountain’s short ledge, Victor sneezes. “Ah…” he sighs, sniffing and pressing the back of his hand to his nose. “I love spring, but spring doesn’t love me.”

Yuuri says nothing, hands holding up the straps of his backpack.

“Oh!” Victor drops his hand to his lap. “Was there anything Ziegler mentioned on Wednesday that was important?”

Yuuri’s hands tighten. “I don’t know. I haven’t taken the midterm so I don’t know what’s important.”

“Well, yeah, but was there anything that particularly―”

“If you want to know what he said, you should have been in class.”

Victor blinks. “Huh?”

An ant carries a leaf by Yuuri’s foot, easily riding the divots in the path below.

Yuuri addresses the ground. “You can’t keep using me to get information for the class.”

Several beats of silence.

“Oh,” murmurs Victor. “I thought―”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

Victor frowns. “Yuuri, what’s up with you?”

Scuffing the bottom of his sneaker on the brick pathway, Yuuri stays quiet, simmering in it before he spits, “You always do this, you always come to me to make up for what you didn’t do and―and―”

Wetness swells in his eyes.

“―I _always_ have to do so much more than you. I’m always working and trying but it never matters because you’re just smarter than me and you just _make_ better grades. But you don’t put in any effort! It just happens! You don’t care!”

The tears are streaming, now.

Victor’s expression turns flat, cold. “You think I don’t care?” he asks, quietly.

“You don’t, all of _this_ ―” Yuuri waves a hand to encompass the university, “―is just some place for you to hang out and have fun―”

“And it’s not for you?”

Yuuri presses his lips together, cheek slick. He wipes his face with the back of his hand.

A breeze sways through, directing the flow of ripples in the fountain and ruffling Victor’s hair, while birds flit in between tree branches, chattering to each other in piercing tones.

“Look, Yuuri.” Victor leans a hand on the fountain ledge. “I didn’t know that I got better grades than you. I never meant to hurt you. I assumed…” He rakes his fingers through his hair, eyes darting aside as he collects his thoughts. “To me, the letter grade isn’t that important. I mean, I don’t want to fail and I do want to do well, but I’m more interested in the topic itself rather than the required exams attached to it. And if I don’t do as well as I want, I just try to improve the next one.”

He sighs and drops his hand. “And I don’t know. I don’t think you have to choose between working hard and enjoying yourself. Working hard makes the fun more fun.”

Expression softening, he says in a more full voice, “Yuuri, I’m sorry, I won’t talk about grades anymore or ask you for help if―”

“It’s―” Yuuri starts, and Victor immediately falls silent. “It’s not your problem.” The dampness of his cheeks is cold when the breeze hits his face at a certain angle. “Sorry. Sorry I’m so―I’m always so tense and rude and you didn’t deserve it and I just―”

“Easy,” Victor says, standing up and placing a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. He squeezes. “It’s not nearly as big of a deal as you think it is.”

Yuuri stares at the collar of Victor’s jacket, throat closing and vision misting over. More spills from his eyes as he buries his face in Victor’s shoulder and mumbles in a thick voice, “I always feel so stupid.”

As Yuuri shakes and clings to him, Victor carefully wraps his arms around Yuuri’s back, his cheek pressed to Yuuri’s head.

The sun is warm, but Victor is warmer.

* * *

Dr. Ziegler hands back their second midterm on a Friday with an exasperated shake of his head, preluding everyone’s doom with, “As I said, there is no curve on this exam, though some of you certainly could have used it.”

He returns them in reverse alphabetical order again, and when Victor receives his, he immediately puts it in his bag and markets a neutral expression as Yuuri continues to wait.

“Yuuri Katsuki.”

Yuuri allows his lungs to fill, and descends the stairs. His hands shake, again, as he takes the packet Dr. Ziegler hands to him.

He flips the packet over.

90.

When he rejoins Victor, Victor flashes him a smile and does not prod, and they walk up the rest of the stairs and out of the auditorium, the packet still clutched at Yuuri’s side.

Victor’s voice fills the air, on something that has nothing to do with midterms, Dr. Ziegler, or central Europe.

In a break of speech, Yuuri hears himself say, “I made a 90.”

“On… Ziegler’s exam?” Victor’s voice tiptoes.

Yuuri nods. “Yeah.”

“That’s great! That’s better than your last one, right?”

“Yeah.” Smiles.

The unadulterated pride and fondness in Victor’s expression sends Yuuri looking elsewhere.

Although bustling with students, the hallway feels open, spacious. Faint rain patters on windows.

* * *

Making himself tall and quashing the storm in his insides, Yuuri enters Dr. Ziegler’s office.

“Ah, hello,” says Dr. Ziegler, looking up from a musty, worn book. “Mr… Katsuki, was it?”

“Yes.” Yuuri sits down and drops his backpack on the floor. “I have a couple of questions about the midterm.”

He only messed up on two, this time; they go through them, and while Dr. Ziegler relays a wealth of information and thought on Yuuri’s mistakes like last time, Yuuri’s brain becomes pleasantly full, not overstuffed.

“Thank you, by the way,” Dr. Ziegler says when done, sitting back.

“Huh?”

“I know that you students consider the exam the finish line to your knowledge, but I almost wish I could get away with having no exams because I don’t want the exam to _be_ the finish line. I want you all to continue to be curious. That’s why I make my exams so difficult, you see. I want you to have things to think about and work on after the exam. And also, I don’t particularly believe in giving 100s. I don’t think they are useful or realistic. Perfection is just a lie the media makes you buy into, and once you start getting too comfortable, you stop improving. It should never stop, you know.” He smiles, a genuine one. “So thank you for coming to me and asking about your answers. Not that many people do.”

Yuuri sits still, a faint, unsure smile on his lips. Wordlessly, he dips his head.

Dr. Ziegler remains and Yuuri departs, reentering the dingy hallway where Victor waits for him.

“Hold on―” Victor dashes and rips open Dr. Ziegler’s door again. “Hello!”

Dr. Ziegler raises his brows. “Why hello, Mr. Nikiforov. Here to pester me?”

“Nope, just waiting for Yuuri!” Stepping back, Victor slings an arm around Yuuri, who flushes and shoots an apologetic look to Dr. Ziegler.

“Mm-hm,” mutters Dr. Ziegler, caring more for his ancient book than either of them. Eyes down, he licks his index finger to theatrically flick the page.

Victor, as always, remains immune to the disdain and waves, calling, “Bye! See you in class!”

As Yuuri is pulled away, he thinks he catches a bemused smile on Dr. Ziegler’s mouth.

Spring is officially here, a carpet of pollen settling atop the entire university and requiring Victor to carry a travel pack of tissues wherever he goes. Sunlight skips over budding trees, warm without the hesitation of lingering winter. Today, Victor wears a shirt striped white and blue with navy shorts that come just above the knee. His brown satchel bounces on his hip as they walk.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, suddenly, reaching into the pocket of his backpack. He holds his hand out. “For you.”

Victor cocks his head. “Hm?”

A steadying exhale. “I needed to repay you, so.”

Pace slowing, Victor studies the coin in Yuuri’s hand. It’s a similar bronze color to the ruble, and it too denotes a 10, but Yuuri can read its characters and can recognize the image of the Buddhist temple on it.

A little hesitant, Victor reaches out and takes the yen coin, fingers hovering on Yuuri’s. He looks up and smiles.

Yuuri smiles back. He checks his watch. “My next class is in ten minutes.”

Victor pockets the coin and they walk on.

**Author's Note:**

> in this house we are donna summer stans first and humans second. please listen to [hot stuff](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IdEhvuNxV8) and [last dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vqZY8P42pLo) if you know what the fuck is up kyle
> 
> this is my first time writing something for yoi so hoping to eventually write more for them. i have some..... ideas
> 
> thanks for reading! [tumblr](http://broniichan.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/bronii_chan)


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